


Safe Room

by Never_Too_Uncouth



Category: The Selection Series - Kiera Cass
Genre: Asthma, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, My First Fanfic, No Smut, Other, Sickfic, and america as always is very good at dealing with things, be nice, mainly, maxon has asthma, mentions of canonical past abuse, set during the one, sorta - Freeform, the bit where america finds maxon's scars, theyre very cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:22:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26421814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Too_Uncouth/pseuds/Never_Too_Uncouth
Summary: America and Maxon are trapped in a safe room following a rebel attack, and Maxon has an asthma attack. Warning for mentions of canonical abuse on Maxon's part, this is set around that scene in The One where America tends to his scars.
Relationships: Maxon Schreave/America Singer
Kudos: 40





	Safe Room

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Please be nice, this is my first published fic. I never see good representation for asthmatics in media, so I figured I'd write my own. I haven't read the books in a while so it might not be fully accurate, but it's just a bit of good old-fashioned fluff, which I think we all need a bit of right now. Stay safe, and enjoy :)

"Maxon?"

America turned to look at the man sitting on the bed, leaning his head against the wall. His eyes were closed, and his mouth pulled into a grimace. He looked pale in the dim light from the emergency lantern, his face drawn and stressed.

"Maxon? You alright?"

He groaned angrily and put his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees. America crawled over and put her hand on his muscular arm.

"Maxon??"

She noticed that his breathing was becoming ragged, and sat beside him on the bed.

"Are you having a panic attack? It's alright, we're safe in here, dont-"

He shook his head, opening his mouth and letting a wheeze escape. America felt her stomach drop in fear.

"Maxon? What's going on?"

He groaned weakly, pulling in his breaths with enormous effort. 

“Fine. I’m. Fine.”

“Maxon, what’s wrong? It’s just me, you can tell me.”

America reached for the first aid box, rummaging through it desperately. 

“Is there anything in here that can help?”

She found a blue inhaler at the bottom of it, and something twigged in her brain. She checked the expiry - it was in date - and pored over the torn label, on which she could just make out the initials ' **M. S.** ’, roughly scrawled in pencil. She shook it and held it up to him. It felt about half full. He shook his head, groaning hoarsely.

"M'fine."

"You're clearly not. Do you need this?"

"M'fine."

"Maxon, you can’t breathe. Do you need me to get someone? Should I break down the door?"

He sighed, wheezing quietly.

"No, ‘merica. M'fine."

"Maxon!"

He cleared his throat, then burst into a coughing fit, bending double and trying desperately to snatch a breath in between coughs. America grabbed him by the shoulders, avoiding the area under the bandages, and pushed him so he was sitting up against the wall. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, try and just breathe, Maxon, you’re okay.”

He leaned his head back and tried to catch his breath, gasping like he'd just run a sprint. America grabbed the inhaler again and shoved it into his hand.

“Take this.”

He didn’t acknowledge her, staring at the ceiling with watering eyes.

"Maxon!" she hissed. He shook his head.

"Fathr... Says... Mustn't..."

"He’s not here, Maxon, it's just me, and I don't mind."

Whatever King Clarkson felt about his son's health was clearly affecting Maxon, and America felt that it might have something to do with the scars on his back. Someone as influential and powerful as a royal couldn’t be seen to have any public weakness, much less a chronic illness like asthma. America watched Maxon try to lift his hand to his mouth, flopping it back onto his lap, wheezing out what could have been a sob. She placed her hand on his back and guided his hand towards his mouth, pushing the inhaler past his lips and looking directly into his eyes.

"After three, breathe in."

Maxon nodded imperceptibly, his pupils dilated, eyes filled with quiet fear.

"One, two, three."

America waited for him to start the breath before pressing the canister of the inhaler, feeling his usually warm, strong hands shaky and limp against hers. He held the breath for a few seconds before having another coughing fit, retching as it reached its climax. America slowly stroked circles over his scarred back, watching the skin at the front of his neck suck in deeply every time he tried to take a breath. She nudged his hand towards his mouth again.

"Again."

He obeyed her, following the same procedure as before and managing to hold in his breath for a few seconds longer. When he breathed out this time, he only coughed a few times, rather than having a full on fit. He was breathing heavily, his shoulders lifting and falling quickly in an attempt to replace the air that just wasn’t getting in. America pressed her hand into his shoulder.

"Try and breathe from your diaphragm, slow down a bit."

Maxon either didn't hear her or elected not to pay attention. He tried to raise the inhaler to his mouth again, and America grabbed his hand as it was about to fall, helping the inhaler into his mouth. He pressed it himself, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, exhaling with a gasp and starting to catch his breath. America let go of his hand, still gently rubbing his shoulder and studying him concernedly.

"Maxon?"

He waited for a second before tipping his head to look at her.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

They sat in silence, the only sound Maxon's hoarse, desperate breathing. It gradually began to steady, until he was breathing slowly and deeply, his hand on his chest and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. America cleared her throat.

"That was, uh... A pretty bad asthma attack."

Maxon squinted at her.

"How d’you know?"

"Sorry?"

"How do you know it was an asthma attack?"

He still sounded out of breath.

"Grace - my youngest sister - used to have it when she was younger. Never anything as bad as that, but she had a couple of attacks if we couldn't afford her preventer that month. She grew out of it, though."

Maxon nodded, lost in thought.

"Thank you for everything just there. I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be stupid, it wasn't your fault."

Maxon grimaced, taking a few deep breaths before speaking again.

"You absolutely mustn't let anyone find out about this. If it got out to the public that I was... Like this. I'd never be taken seriously. Father would never forgive me."

America's eyes drifted to the fresh cuts on Maxon's back.

"Alright. The secret's safe with me."

Maxon looked surprised.

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's your business. I'm just glad I knew what to do."

Maxon eyed her up approvingly before having another violent coughing fit. She waited for it to subside before offering the inhaler again. Maxon shook his head.

"I'm okay. I need to sleep. We'll be let out in the morning, most likely."

America nodded.

"I'll take the floor, you have the bed."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's too cold to sleep on the floor."

"Really, Maxon, I-"

"Come on. Join me."

He laid down, pushing the first aid box onto the floor with a clunk and patting the part of the mattress beside him. America cautiously lay down beside him, and he draped the blanket over them. America felt his arms snake around her waist as he rested his head against hers, relaxing and closing his eyes. She moved closer, feeling the heat from his body start seeping into her, gingerly placing her head on his chest. He pulled her even closer and she relaxed into him, listening to his slow, deep breathing and making sure he wasn't wheezing again. She slowly fell asleep to the rhythm of his breaths.

America woke suddenly. She blinked, then realised where she was. A safe room in the palace, the door still locked, and hopefully the danger outside gone. She pushed herself up on her elbow and looked down at Maxon, who was out for the count. She glanced at the clock on the wall - it was just after eight in the morning. Surely a guard would be coming to let them out soon - and the sooner Maxon got to fresh air the better. He stirred as she moved, taking a hold of her wrist gently.

"What? What's wrong?"

America smiled down at him.

"Nothing, Maxon. I just woke up."

"Oh. What's the time?"

She glanced at the clock again.

"Nearly quarter past eight."

He groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. America watched as he sighed deeply, running his hands through his lightly tousled hair.

"How's your breathing now?"

He nodded, keeping his hands lodged in his hair.

"Better."

"Better better or leave-me-alone better?"

He smiled, clearing his throat.

"Better. Not all the way back to normal, but definitely better."

"Good. Definitely don't need the inhaler again?"

He shook his head, sitting up and leaning against the wall.

"I'm alright now, America. Really."

She eyed him up and down, lingering on his throat and making sure the tell-tale patch of skin at the front wasn't sucking in. She glanced at the first aid kit.

"Is there a stethoscope in there?"

Maxon took her hand pleadingly.

"America, please. I'm okay."

"I just want to make sure."

She pulled her hand away, rooting through the box and coming up triumphant with the stethoscope. She warmed the end in her hand for a moment before looking at Maxon.

"Please? It'd make me feel better, at least."

Maxon sighed, turning his back to her and nodding. She put the earpieces in and pressed the end to a space between scars. He flinched.

"Easy, Maxon, it's just me. Breathe in, slowly."

He did so, and she heard his lungs fill, sounding fairly clear.

"Out, please."

He breathed out slowly and slightly raggedly, and she could hear a quiet wheeze deep in his chest.

"Again? Can you breathe any deeper?"

Maxon nodded, and America heard his lungs fill again, this time faster. He stopped abruptly as a slight wheeze appeared, violently coughing. America dropped the stethoscope and rubbed his back, feeling his breath hitch in between dry coughs. He groped behind him and grabbed the inhaler, using it quickly and coughing out most of the medication. America watched as he used it again, sighing. He looked round at her, his face slightly red.

"Sorry."

"Not completely better?"

He smiled ruefully.

"Apparently not. My father's going to kill me."

"Do you have any other medication? Anything else that would help it before you have to see him?"

Maxon thought for a moment, rubbing his face.

"There's a sort of oil, ointment, thing. I have some in my room."

"When we get out, I want you to go back to your room and use that, then."

Maxon looked terrified.

"What if my father-"

He broke into another dry coughing fit, and America hushed him.

"Don't try and talk too much, it'll use up your air. I'll help you. If we play our cards right, he'll never know."

Maxon looked defeated.

"Alright - but he really can't know."

"Don't worry about it. Just try and relax for now."

Maxon sighed and settled back into the wall, watching America deftly clear up the scattered contents of the first aid box and place it back on the shelf. There was a loud grating noise and the door opened to reveal an exhausted looking Palace guard, who audibly groaned with relief as he took in the room.

"Your highness, thank god you're alright."

Maxon nodded, pulling on his shirt and suit jacket swiftly.

"Quite alright, thank you. I will be retiring to my rooms with immediate effect until further notice, and Miss Singer will accompany me."

Maxon cleared his throat, and America saw his hand clench in his pocket over the inhaler. The guard nodded.

"Of course, your highness. Shall I notify his majesty?"

"If you wish, yes, tell him I am not to be disturbed. I will come and see him electively once I emerge."

"Very well, sir."

Maxon beckoned to America, who followed him down the corridor, a step behind. She noticed he was walking tentatively, not with his usual confident stride, and there was a strained look upon his face. Halfway up the set of stairs that led to his room, he stopped, breathless.

"May I- lean on you?"

"Of course."

America stood on the step below him, letting him put his arms on her shoulders and put his head down, breathing heavily. She felt his breath like a warm breeze on her shoulder, shifting the baby hairs on her neck. Being so close, his wheeze was much louder in her ear.

"Maxon? You good?"

He nodded, still leaning on her.

"Perfectly--fine, Ms Singer."

"Remember, it's just me."

"Okay."

"So you good?"

"Need a minute."

They stood for a moment until Maxon had caught his breath. He nodded and grabbed the banister, almost pulling himself up until they got to his rooms. He unlocked the door and stumbled in, collapsing on to his bed panting for breath like he'd just run a sprint. America closed the door and pulled Maxon so he was sitting up. He groaned in protest.

"It takes the pressure off your lungs. You can lean against the headboard if you want."

Maxon wheezed breathlessly, slowly shifting until he was sitting up on his bed, leaning against the headboard. He tipped his head back against the wall and let out a weak grunt of frustration.

"Undo your shirt for God's sake, that can't be helping."

Maxon fumbled at his shirt buttons. America climbed on to the bed beside him and deftly undid them. He winced as she brushed against his stomach.

"What? Are you okay?"

"Cold hands."

"Oh. Sorry."

America folded his shirt neatly and placed it on top of his dresser.

"So, where's this magic oil or whatever it is?"

Maxon reached into his bedside drawer, coughing roughly, and held up a small brown bottle with a faded label on it. America took it and held it up to the light.

"There's not much in here."

Maxon sat back, fighting off another coughing fit.

"Its- running out. Can't- get more."

America nodded.

"What even is it?"

She unscrewed the cap and sniffed the contents, recoiling at the strong smell that hit her.

"Wow, that's pungent."

Maxon let out a wheezy laugh, coughing into his elbow, and beckoned to America.

"Bring it- here- before--I - pass - out."

America sat on the edge of the bed facing him, holding the bottle.

"What do I do with it?"

Maxon held up a finger, taking another puff of his inhaler. America watched as his chest heaved as he struggled to hold in the breath for even a few seconds. She frowned slightly, trying not to let him see how upset she was that he was in pain. After a moment he nodded.

"Okay. While I have the breath to talk. That stuff, gives off fumes, " he paused for breath. "And I take some in my hand, and rub it- Rub it on. And over time, the fumes help-help me breathe."

America nodded.

"Do you want me to rub it on for you?"

Maxon shrugged, creasing over as he coughed harshly again. America put her hand on his shoulder, holding him up best she could.

"That settles that, then"

She waited for him to stop coughing, concern growing as he didn't. She climbed further onto the bed, grabbing the inhaler from where he'd dropped it on his pillow and cupping the back of his neck with her hand.

"Maxon, try and just breathe, alright?"

She held the inhaler in his mouth and pressed it as he took a breath, willing him to hold it in. He coughed it out again, but she could tell it had helped slightly. He leaned back against the headboard, half-lying down, and closed his eyes, his breath wheezing quietly. America picked up the bottle of oil again, and tipped a small amount onto Maxon's chest, feeling his heartbeat strongly under her fingers as she began to rub it in slowly. Maxon was breathing from his shoulders, dragging each breath in with an immense effort, and she trailed her hand down to his stomach, continuing to slowly rub in the fragrance oil.

"Max, try and breathe from your stomach. It'll help."

She felt his stomach rise and saw his face screw up in pain, his chest shuddering under her hand as he fought against a cough, abs clenching tightly under her hand. The warmth of his skin was starting to disperse the scent of the oil, and he took a deep breath through his nose. America continued to massage his chest, watching his face carefully.

"Is it helping?"

He coughed a few times, nodding.

"Starting to, yep."

He continued to breathe carefully through his nose, occasionally pausing to cough or gasp for breath, America slowly and deliberately continuing to rub circles around his ribcage, silently willing his breathing to ease and his airways to open. The room was full of the smell of the oil now, the strong scent clearing America's own sinuses as well. Maxon started to relax, breathing deeply and evenly again, America's hand still gently skimming over his chest, continuing to rub it therapeutically. Maxon sighed contentedly.

"Thank you."

His voice sounded much stronger, almost back to his old self. America smiled.

"No problem. Are you feeling better?"

"Heaps. Good lord, you're good at that."

America raised an eyebrow.

"What, slapping oil on you?"

"Yes. Usually I just rub it on myself and hope for the best."

America rolled her eyes, letting her hand rest lightly above Maxon's heart.

"Well, anytime you need it, I'm happy to oblige. I much prefer you when you can breathe."

Maxon smiled, looking exhausted.

"C'mere. Power nap time."

He pulled her close to him, and she fought him off, giggling.

"I don't want to!"

"I do! It takes a lot out of you, and besides, it's barely after nine. We have time."

America rolled her eyes, pretending to begrudge him the cuddle.

"Ugh, fine."

She rested her head on his shoulder, secretly feeling very glad that she was getting to spend the whole morning with him. His arms wrapped around her, and her hand snaked its way across his chest again. She felt him yawn, then cough a few times.

"Just an hour or so. Would you oblige me with that?"

She pressed her lips almost imperceptibly to his neck.

"Of course I would."


End file.
